Once and Future
by The-Lady-Aphrodite
Summary: It is 1192 in a small village in the South of France. 1536 at the court of Henry VIII. 1665 in the midst of the Great Plague. 1810 in the world of the British Regency. 1912 on the unsinkable ship. "Do I know you?" she asked. At the same time he said, "I think I know you." They looked at each other and a slow smile spread across their faces. I do not own anything.
1. 1192

**Hello :) I thought I would try to write something else ArMor related...**

1192 – Aubeterre sur Dronne, France

The summer was hot that year; the old church of St Jean built into the stone of the cliff providing the only relief from the sun. The coolness reflecting off its dark walls was the reason Morgana spent a lot of the time that month in prayer.

Word came from the North that Richard of England's forces would march through the village. No one knew if it was true. Their only source was a man so old and worn he might have been dead for a year and you would not have realised it. But no, that was cruel. He might have been telling the truth. Or his version of it. In Morgana's experience there were always several variations.

Until the day it happened life would carry on. Morgana would wake in the morning, dress, untie her plait and let the heavy curtain of silk fall down her back, walk to market, sell eggs and the strange buttons her mother made in the summer for linen tunics. Nobody ever wore linen tunics. She would fetch water from the well, fish from the stalls, bread from the pretty little woman who lived in the white house overlooking the valley and then back to see to her mother.

Her mother was sick. There was nothing to be done. Chickens still chattered in the earth at the back and there was still water in the well. Until they were gone, Morgana would not worry. Only two things were certain in this world. One that all the people you loved would die. Two, you yourself would die.

They called her a cynic; the other girls. They gathered in the afternoon and combed their blonde curls and eyed her with blue eyes the colour of the spring sky. She ignored them with her black hair the colour of a winter night and serious green eyes. You couldn't have friends in the village; not really. She didn't have time to sit and comb her hair no matter how much she wanted to. She didn't enjoy being cynical. Sometimes she wished she could be a dreamer. Sometimes all she wanted to do was sit and sigh and think but there would be time for that in the next life. In this life it was hard work and a hard soul that gave you life. Hard as the stone that watched them; the stone of the white mountain that had given them their church.

Besides, she liked it better that way. Life was simpler when you knew where to go and what to do. There was no time to worry about what might or might not happen.

* * *

It was still summer, barely when they came. With their huge brown horses that snorted air from England, their white tunics painted with the Red Lion, their straw coloured, chocolate coloured, fire coloured hair and serious, stern faces they came through. The whole village came out to see them ride past the tall white mountains of their obscure village somewhere in the south of France. Morgana's mother was still sick and that was the reason the girl did not greet the Crusaders who would save the Holy Land.

"Go outside, child," her mother pleaded from the dark of her room. "You will never see such a sight again in your life. Go outside and then come back and tell me. Tell me of the most handsome face you see. Bring me back his name. Perhaps the Lionheart himself will be there."

At first she protested but her mother was adamant. Morgana picked up her skirts and ran outside. They had stopped outside of the cliff church and together as one they crossed themselves, speaking words that Morgana did not understand. She looked at the one who seemed to be the leader. He was tall and broad but he was not handsome. She let her eyes wander down, down the line until the gleaming blue of the ocean stared back at her.

The man had the clearest, most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen in her life. Morgana had never seen the sea but she imagined it would look exactly like those man's eyes. He smiled at her and as his head moved, the sun caught his hair and turned it to gold. She did not think she had ever seen a more beautiful man in all her life.

She had only one thought; to find out the angel's name for her mother.

The horses began to walk slowly forward and she started to run with a gasp after them. Weaving in and out of hooves she kept the man's face within her sight. Soldiers called to her but she paid them no heed. Their words were air against her anyway.

Finally he slowed his horse and allowed the other men to pass him. She waited patiently at the side of the road and he came to her, dismounting when he neared.

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in all my days." To her surprise, the words did not come from her mouth but his. He spoke her language and it felt like watching the sun rise from a cloud in gentle triumph. The summer sun always won over winter cloud.

"I think you have stolen the ocean and put it in your eyes," she replied and then wanted to blush for sounding so stupid. Slowly she reached out hesitantly. He caught her hand with his own.

"And you have stolen Heaven and placed it in your face."

He pressed her hand to his lips. They were warm against her smooth skin. "Who are you?" He asked in wonder.

"My name is Morgana," she answered.

"I feel as though I have seen you in my dreams and yet I cannot quite remember."

She smiled gently. "I do not believe in dreams."

His mouth opened a little. "We must all believe in dreams, my lady Morgana, otherwise we cannot believe in Heaven."

She watched his eyes for a little time until he sighed deeply. "What is wrong?"

"I must leave now. The army will soon be without me."

A thought flashed through her mind. It was the sort of thought a dreamer might have. "You could stay here, with me." Her eyes were clouded with hope.

"I cannot," His eyes were dark with regret. "To abandon my friends and my country; I could not do it. Although I do believe, my lady, we are destined to meet again."

"In this life?" She wondered aloud.

He shook his head and placed his hand on her cheek tenderly. "I do not think so. But remember me, Morgana, for I will come for you one day. In this life or the next, I will come back for you."

He pulled his hand away and mounted his horse. He inclined his head and circled away, trotting back to the line. She watched him leave and then with a sudden jolt in her chest, she remembered. "What is your name?" She called desperately as he rode away from her.

"Arthur, my lady. My name is Arthur."

* * *

Morgana sat back and watched the dull orange of the dying fire. The flames shone on her grey hair and made it seem wonderful again. He had never come back. "Never, grand-mere?" asked her youngest grandchild, sweet Vivienne of the golden eyes and the golden dreams. She was always a dreamer, that child. Morgana smiled down at her sadly.

"Never," she replied. "But I was happy. I married my Jean and we had many fine children who in their turn had their own many fine children. And so I am not alone now that I am an old widow and I would have been all by myself forever if I had spent my life waiting." The other grandchildren had listened politely but they were only really interested in the Crusaders. They did not care for a golden-haired stranger with eyes like the ocean who had made an empty promise to their grandmother. For all they knew, it might be the confused ramblings of a dreamy old woman. But Morgana had never pretended to be a dreamer.

"You didn't spend your life waiting, grand-mere?" repeated Vivienne slowly.

"No, child."

A faraway look crossed her dear child's face and Vivienne smiled. "But you are, aren't you?"

Morgana reached out and Vivienne took her wrinkled hand. "Yes," she whispered, so quietly none of the other children could hear. "Yes, I am still waiting for him. I am still waiting for Arthur to find me."

**Thanks for reading :)**


	2. 1536

**The next chapter...**

1536 – London, England

It was dark and the walls smelt musty as she hurried along the narrow corridor. Or maybe that was just her fear seeping out of her heart like an ale stain on a silk gown, suffocating the air around her with its toxic fumes. No one looked at her. They all knew who she was and perhaps some even knew what she was about to do. No one stopped her although she was holding her skirts high above her ankles in her haste. No one greeted her although familiar faces were painted on every corner.

Her mistress was waiting for her anxiously. The thought was the only one that kept her from fleeing back to the countryside where her widowed father was dying. Her Queen needed her.

The great hall was full and she rounded a corner to face it, for a moment dazed by the crowd of people. They blocked her from the King's private chamber door. The door that led into his studies and bedchambers and dining halls. The door she needed to enter if the heavy chain that hung upon her heart was to ever be removed.

"My lady," a sharp voice cut through her. She raised her face bravely. A short man with a oily black hair and a thick waist had greeted her. "May I ask as to the queen's health this morning?"

"The Queen is well, thank you, my lord," she answered shortly. "Just a little tired."

"I suspect she is resting now then?" The oily-haired man leered up at her.

"Your suspicions are correct, my lord." She made to move away but he detained her with a plump hand. His nails were cut down so she could see the raw pink flesh that should have been hidden by them. It made her skin crawl.

"I was thinking about paying her a visit. To ask about the Princess as well naturally. It has been a long time since we saw her at court." His small eyes dared her to react. She dared not. Enemies were like buzzing wasps that spring. Everywhere.

"I would discourage you if I may, my lord. The queen is not – she is not her usual self."

"I expect not," he agreed quietly. "The king has been ignoring her of late. I personally think it has something to do with the little milksop that has been hanging on to his arm. Do you?"

Time was running out. The king would be with his advisors soon if she did not get rid of the odious man. "I would not speak like that if I were you," she suddenly snapped. "Lady Jane Seymour is standing right behind you."

He did not really believe her, she could tell but even so he whirled around to check. Nobody was there. But by the time he turned back around, the slim dark-haired lady had disappeared.

She hastened through the throngs of courtiers, some giving her looks of curiosity, many looking right through her. It suited her like that. She spent most of her days pretending not to exist. It was the way you survived at court; her mother had taught her that much before she left the world. "Never let them know what you want," she had said. "That way they cannot have power over you."

Morgana was forcibly reminded of her queen's parting words to her. "He knows very well what it is I want," the queen had muttered, almost to herself. She paced the room like a tiger in a cage. "I want my daughter back. I want her back here. I know I can have a boy if Elizabeth is brought back to me. I would be so happy. All would be well," she had stopped pacing and gazed across the chamber at Morgana. "You will not fail me, Lady Morgana." It had not been a question. Queen Anne was not a beautiful woman but there was something about her. She was clever too. Morgana and the other ladies listened to her talk for hours, wondering how it was possible that the woman who could have charmed the devil out of hell had lost the love of the king who had given up everything; his wife, his daughter, his God to have her.

The huge wooden door loomed in front of her abruptly. She could not hear anything behind it. The knights who stood guard were talking almost silently to each other and did not notice her. She took a deep breath and rapped on the door.

At once one of the knights; the younger one appeared beside her, a stern expression on his face. "What are you doing here my lady?"

His voice was deep. She had not expected it from the youthful looking man. He was handsome too, she realised with a jolt. She looked at him closely. He seemed oddly familiar. "I am looking for the king, sir," she replied trying to smile. She had done it so little over the past months it hurt her lips and she quickly stopped. "I thought I might find him in here."

He laughed but it was not unkind. "When the king wants your company, he will ask for it. You'd better go back to your rooms, my lady."

She stayed where she was. "I must speak with the king. It is on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen."

The guard closed his eyes briefly. "That's what they all say," he sighed. "I am sorry but I can't let you through there."

"Why not?" Her childhood stubbornness was starting to show itself. She reminded herself of her purpose. I must be calm and sensible, she thought and waited for the guard's reply.

"Because you might be an assassin."

She laughed briefly. "Yes and I might be the Pope of Rome. Now please, let me pass. The king will want to hear what I have to say."

"If Queen Anne wishes to talk to the King that is her business, not yours." He was holding out his hand now, trying to guide her away but she refused to move a single inch.

"It is my business when she sends me to talk to him!" She felt her temper begin to slip. This stupid man! Did he not understand?

"Now, look," he paused and stared at her intently. "What's your name?" He asked suddenly.

"Lady Morgana. My father is the Duke of Cornwall. Now will you let me through?"

He ignored her request. "So you're here as lady-in-waiting, am I correct, my lady?" She nodded impatiently. "Well, I'm sorry but you'll just have to keep on waiting until the king sends for you."

"I'll be waiting until the end of the world then!" she spluttered in anger. "You aren't the king, you know! You can't order me about. You aren't even a nobleman."

He smiled; it curled around his mouth pleasantly. "I might be."

"If you were, you wouldn't be standing here guarding the king's door," she pointed out with more than a hint of triumph. "So don't try and lie about it."

He shrugged. "I am sorry," he insisted. "But I can't let you past, my lady."

"Is there nothing I can say or do to make you open that door?" She was desperate now. She would have done anything to shut the fool up and get through to the king.

"You can walk away and wait for the king to summon you," he offered brightly.

She scowled and backed away. "I hope you never need me for anything _sir_. I won't help you, you know."

He chuckled and the other guard grinned broadly. "I hope so too, my lady. Have a pleasant day!"

She waited until he was talking again before turning and running from the hall, tears falling steadily down her face. She had failed. She would have to go back and face her queen and tell her that she had failed.

As soon as she reached the queen's chambers she broke down and everyone present knew what had happened. "My poor lady," Queen Anne reached out her hand to the sobbing Morgana. The queen was pale but her mouth was set firmly in place and the hand that Morgana took did not tremble. "I pray you, do not blame yourself. It is not your fault, my sweet Morgana. Look at me. Look at me!" Morgana looked up, her vision blurred. The queen's face swayed in front of her; it was hard and cool like white stone. "What will be will be. We just have to face it."

* * *

"Lady Morgana?" A half-forgotten voice drifted across the lawns to her. She stiffened at the sound. The last thing she wished to do was stand and listen to him. He was coming closer. Any moment and she would have to turn around. "My lady." He was standing behind her.

"I do not wish to speak with you." She did not even bother to ask what he was doing there in Cornwall. She did not care.

"My lady, I feel I must apologise –,"

"Apologise?" her voice was high and shrill. He winced. "If you had just let me speak to the king this would never have happened."

"My lady that is unfair. The king does what the king wants. Whether or not his guard lets one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting in to speak to him can make no difference –,"

"Not anymore," she spat. "I'm not the queen's lady-in-waiting anymore. There is no queen anymore."

There was a heavy silence. She still could not bring herself to look at him. Finally he said, "It was wise of you to come back to your father. I do not think you would be very happy at court now."

"But you are going to return there." It was not a question.

"My lady, he is the king."

Morgana faced him slowly. "She was the queen."

His voice was sad as he echoed her words. "Not anymore." He looked sad too. She remembered how she had thought him handsome and how she had felt so strongly that she had met him somewhere before. It was stronger than ever at that moment. As though he was a figure from a half-forgotten dream, one she had tried desperately to hold on to because it had made her happy.

She was struck by a sudden realisation. "I don't know your name."

He surprised her by grinning. "Arthur, my lady. Sir Arthur Pendragon."

"I see," she stared at him intently, trying to remember. But nothing happened and finally she gave up, sighing. "You should return to court. I expect the king will miss you greatly."

He did not miss the sarcasm in her voice but other than raising his eyebrows slightly, chose to ignore it. "You haven't even asked me why I came all this way. It is no small distance, my lady."

"Very well, why did you come?"

He frowned. "I don't know. I felt as though I had to, somehow. As though God, or something else was telling me to come here. I knew I would find you here."

She turned away from him, staring out to the blueness of the sea. When he took her arm and gently forced her to look back at him, she found to her amazement the sea was mirrored in his eyes. She tore her gaze away and waited. "Perhaps," he began hesitantly. "When everything has calmed down a little, you will come back to court?"

Morgana did not know what to say. She had no intention of leaving her father again and certainly not for the court of King Henry. But Arthur was looking at her with his ocean blue eyes and she sighed deeply. "I do not know," she answered honestly. "In all truth, I do not know if I will ever leave Cornwall again," she tore herself away from his grasp and took a step backwards. "You must go now. I wish to be alone. Please."

He hesitated for a moment but when she showed no signs of relenting, murmured, "Come back if you can," and after one last pause, started to walk away from her.

A tear fell from Morgana's eye and she dashed it away impatiently. I will not be weak, she told herself firmly. I will be strong, for my father and for my queen and for myself. She had told Arthur Pendragon that she did not know if she would go back. She knew now that she could never go back. For some reason it made her desperately unhappy to think of him alone there, spending his years waiting for her.

She had made her choice. The court was a toxic web of deceit and dishonesty full of creeping, biting spiders. Morgana would stay away and Arthur would wait. She wondered how long he would wait for. Perhaps his whole life, she thought sadly and felt a pang in the place in her chest where the physicians said the heart was supposed to be.

**I hope you liked it!**


	3. 1665

Summer 1665 – London, England

Another red cross. Another wailing woman. Another pale body covered in obscene black buboes collected by Death in the dead of night like a ghost. Morgana did not know how long this could go on for. Day by day somebody else left forever. It crept closer and closer, with each edging footfall, Death was approaching in the form of the plague.

Morgana spent most days inside, huddled beside the barely stirring mass of stinking flesh and curdled sheets that was her sister. There was hope yet, she told herself. There were not yet the black marks, not yet the irreversible lumps rising from the skin defiantly, as dark as midnight. There was just a little water to be had but it was enough. Morgana found herself justifying the sips she took for herself, reminding herself that if she died of thirst, there would be no one left to take care of Morgause.

The king and his court had left the city. Morgana was not surprised. Of course they would save themselves, of course they would flee. After all, what was a country without its king? Or a king without his country? Yet it felt like the end of everything. Morgana had lived in the same street of the same part of London for the whole of her life. Her mother had died shortly after she was born and her father had gone to his mass pit of a grave only two weeks ago. He had said strange things at the end, begging forgiveness for sins long committed. It had almost been a relief when he had finally departed, his rattling breaths growing slower and more painful. Morgana no longer feared death. Heaven or hell, none of it could be worse than the half-life she and Morgause were enduring, at each end. Morgause falling forwards to death, Morgana holding back to life.

There was a muffled groan. Morgana rose from her seat by the stained, dusty window and hurried to her sister. "What is it?" she breathed, forgetting in her fear that Morgause could no longer speak. "Do you want water?"

Morgause moaned softly. It caused a sharp twang of pain to ricochet through Morgana's heaving chest. In reply, the dying woman tried to raise a hand. Morgana reached out to take it. What did she care for pus and sickness when it was her own sister? "I'll come back with the water soon," she said quietly, and left the room.

The harsh glow of the night-fires pervaded the cool streets as Morgana skulked through the shadows. She spotted other dark figures making their way around but nobody stopped or gave any sign that they had seen her. A solitary rat prowling the gutters squeaked and scurried out of sight as Morgana moved past it – the only living creature to acknowledge her existence.

Out of the gloom, the well appeared, hazy and fading. The vile smell of strong pepper wafted about, growing more potent as Morgana drew closer to the well. Ignoring it, she reached out for a bucket. It almost slipped through her shaking fingers as she lowered it into the well. It went lower and she lost sight of it. Lower and she wondered why it was so cold in the middle of the summer. Lower and she peered in, hoping she would hear it soon, hoping to get back to Morgause. There was a hollow sound. The unmistakeable noise of a wooden bucket hitting solid ground. There was no more water.

Perhaps she gritted her teeth and clenched her fists to stop herself crying with frustration and rage. Perhaps she slid on to the ground, furiously wiping tears from her icy face. She could have done anything and would not have known.

"Enough," she nearly said it aloud. There would be another well somewhere. There would be another well, of course there would be. They could hardly expect everyone in London to survive on one well, could they? That was simply ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. And it was enough.

She struggled to her feet and glanced around warily. How would she go about finding a new well? Her family had relied on that one for as long as she could remember. And she couldn't spend too long looking, Morgause would need her.

A low voice cut across her thoughts abruptly. "Are you all right?" It was a man. She squinted through the darkness to see him properly. He obliged her by stepping forwards.

It was ludicrous, in the midst of all this pain and grief and death and sickness that a handsome man still possessed the ability to make her stomach dance with butterflies. She nearly smiled but remembered herself. "Do you know where I might find another well?" she asked him.

He frowned. "What's wrong with this one?"

"I don't know why, but there doesn't seem to be any water in it."

His frown grew deeper, almost as though he didn't quite believe her. She found herself wanting to defend herself. "Are you sure?" he enquired.

"Quite sure. You can check if you like." He didn't bother.

"You need water then."

"I do, yes."

He considered that. "Follow me."

He started to walk off but Morgana stood completely still. She was not a fool. "Where are we going?"

"To find another well." He said it as though it should have been obvious to anyone with half a brain. He looked at her closely. "I promise that if I had had any intention of murdering you, I would have done so already."

That made her blush but it was too dark for him to see. "All right then," she said finally. "But we must be quick."

She walked with him, her hands swinging by her legs awkwardly. He didn't seem to feel the need to talk to her, nor did he look at her. He was acting as though he was alone. Morgana watched him surreptitiously. "Why are you helping me?" she demanded.

"Why not?"

"I'm a stranger."

He grinned. "Are you?"

"Yes. Aren't I?"

"We've met before. It was the bakery on Jill Street, I think."

Morgana bit her lip, bemused. "I don't think it was."

"Oh?"

"For one thing, I've never been to Jill Street. Or the bakery on it."

For the first time since they had met he looked uncertain. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm certain."

His eyebrows pulled together. "It must have been somewhere else then. Somewhere I can't remember. Give me a minute and I'll know."

"Perhaps," Morgana knew she would have remembered his face but she changed the subject. "Where is the well? I must get back to my sister quickly."

She had said it. He would know now. And he would run away. She wouldn't blame him. But he merely nodded and said, "I think there must be one around here somewhere."

"My sister is dying." She stopped, shocked at herself. Where had that come from? She waited for him to leave.

"I see," he said.

"I might die."

"I would say that death is guaranteed for all of us, not just you." He spoke lightly as though they were discussing the weather.

She replied, "The heat makes it worse," even as she shivered.

"I expect it does."

They continued on in silence for a few minutes. An owl swooped silently over their heads, ghostly white and Morgana was reminded of how late it had grown. "The well is nearby?" she asked.

"It's here," he pointed to his left. He was right, a cracked stone well stood lopsided on the street, forlorn in the paleness of the half moon. Morgana muttered a prayer of thanks and pushed the bucket as far as it would go. She breathed upon hearing the satisfying splash of wood against water. When she had finished, she pulled the bucket back up painfully slowly. It was inevitable that she would spill some on the walk back to Morgause but she could save at least half of it if she was careful enough.

To his credit, the man did not try and offer to carry the bucket for her, sensing perhaps that she wouldn't have trusted it to anyone else. Or maybe he just wasn't a gentleman. Either way, it was with a metaphorical spring in her step that Morgana turned around and began to walk back.

"You can go now," she said to the man who was still next to her. "I appreciate your help but I do know the way back."

He hesitated. "Are you certain?"

"Quite certain, thank you."

"Very well then."

"Wait!" she called out. He paused and looked back. "In a few weeks, when Morgause – when everything is settled, I'd like to come and see you. I'm rather good at making herbal remedies and scents, just simple ones, I sell them, you see. Perhaps I could make you something, to say thank you?"

He paused again but this time he was smiling. "That would be lovely. I live about five minutes east of the river, by the Red Lion. Just ask for Arthur."

"Are you that well known?"

He grinned. "You'll find me."

"I will do that then," she smiled and made to leave but he spoke quickly.

"You haven't told me your name yet." Then he blushed, as if he had said something silly. It made Morgana feel strangely light inside.

"Morgana," she replied and with one last look backwards, began her walk home.

* * *

It had taken an excruciatingly long time for Morgause to depart the world. The first black bubo had been the worst because before that she had still been able to cling to hope. After that there had been nothing left except a sort of grim determination to get the thing over and done with. By the time the end came both Morgana and Morgause were exhausted.

By the time Morgana had remembered Arthur, the stranger who had led her to the well, it was almost December and people were beginning to recover. She had not died, for reasons known only to God and she was just starting to wonder when the best time would be to visit him. She found herself going over her herbs in her head, considering what he would find most useful. In the end she decided to make him a medicine for a sore throat because after all, they were common and irritating and it would keep for a long time until he did happen to suffer from a sore throat.

The Red Lion was a traditional ale house, gabled and dingy and with a swinging board painted with a fading red lion hanging above Morgana's head. Inside was no better; it smelled like dirty farm animals and unwashed old men. The man who seemed to be in charge was cleaning out tankards with a grimy cloth. He leered as Morgana stepped closer.

"What can I do for you, little girl?" he rasped, slamming the tankard down with a thud that made Morgana jump. He snorted.

"I'm looking for Arthur," she mumbled.

"What?"

"I'm looking for Arthur."

"Arthur?"

She decided to leave it. "It doesn't matter, I'm going now –,"

"Wait for a moment little girl," he held up a fleshy brown hand. "There was an Arthur who came in here a few months back, tall, nice-looking, like, you know what I mean. He lived not far from here."

Morgana licked her lips nervously. "Yes, I think that's who I mean."

"Dead."

"W-what?"

"Plague took him, din' it? He died, late August it was. Died like a dog in the street, from what I heard. Not pretty."

"I don't –,"

"No one left you see. His old man croaked it months ago too, his ma died years n' years ago and there was no one left to see to him. So he died."

Morgana's head rolled. She took the herbal medicine from her pocket and slid it across to the man. "Have this," she said. "I don't want it."

"Is it poison?" He sniffed it delicately.

"Yes. No. I don't know." She stumbled from the Red Lion, gasping for breath, falling to the ground blinded with white hot tears. Dead. He was dead. No. No. No. Dead. He was dead. Dead. Dead.

"Stop!" she cried aloud. A woman walking along with two children shot her a dirty glance and hurried her children along. Morgana did not blame her. She must look mad, sprawled in the dirt, crying for a man she had known for less than an hour. "Stop," she whimpered, her tears mixing with the mud and staining her face. "Please stop."

She realised as she lay there, crying for poor, dead, lonely Arthur, just why he had been roaming the streets alone at night.

And she knew it was not going to stop.

**Thank you for reading, I'm sorry for the long wait :)**


	4. 1810 Part I

Spring 1810 – Avalon Manor, Northumberland, England

Arthur had not wanted to come to this bloody boring weekend party in the middle of northern England. Rolling green hills and dark fir forests and clear twinkling streams and red berry hawthorn bushes looked much nicer in paintings than they did in real life. In fact the rolling green hills took hours to walk or ride across, the forests seemed to go on forever when viewed from a carriage window, the streams were damned noisy at night (for some reason people laughed when he said this) and the red hawthorn berries kept dropping on to his dog's fur and ruining his bedroom carpet. Not that that mattered very much. It wasn't his carpet to clean.

"My lord," someone wanted him again. A shame really, he was just getting into the views of fields and trees and fields and trees and fields and – "My lord Pendragon?"

"Yes, what is it?" he snapped.

"Lady Morgana wanted you to know that dinner will be served in an hour so if you wanted to change..."

He resisted the urge to snap at the pathetic footman. God, his wig was almost falling off he was trembling so much. "Yes, yes, all right," the footman scurried away and Arthur sighed.

He would never have bothered if Morgana hadn't sent him that ten page epistolary novel explaining just why he was obliged to attend and just what she would tell his father if he refused. As though he would dare to think about missing her social gathering/party/event debut.

_It's important to do these things properly, _she had written in her letter, _so I need to have people I'm familiar with around me. Otherwise of course, I wouldn't have bothered inviting you or Merlin._

Morgana was always the epitome of charm.

He allowed himself ten minutes in his bedroom to relax. Then the knocking began. He sighed. "Yes," he called, knowing exactly who it would be.

She burst into the room, silk and ruby earrings and flashes of green eyes flying everywhere. He smiled to himself, eyes opening slowly.

"Good evening Morgana, you look splendid this evening."

"Why aren't you dressed for dinner yet?" she demanded. She started pacing around the room, picking up his breeches gingerly and tossing them into the open wardrobe. "Dinner will be ready in less than an hour and all my guests are waiting in the drawing room!"

"Well, not all of your guests. I'm up here and I very much doubt Merlin's come in yet."

Morgana shook her head in exasperation. "Don't. As if I haven't got enough to worry about already," she paused and shot him a rare grin. "I meant all of my important guests, anyway."

"Cruel, very cruel."

"Yes, I know."

Arthur opened his eyes again just in time to dodge the plump cushion she threw at him. "Come on Arthur!"

"What was that for?"

"Get dressed. Get downstairs. I need your help." She made to swan out but he cleared his throat pointedly.

"Need my help for what exactly?"

She swivelled around, not a hair out of place. Her skin appeared to glow in the pale orange light of the early evening. "I arranged this house party to make a name for myself, Arthur. I want to be...elegant. And sophisticated. And popular. And the only way I can do that is by inviting lots of important people to my house to see how lovely and respectable and rich I am."

"Yes, yes, I understand all of that," he lied. He would never understand the depths to which women would sink to be accepted into society. With men it was easy; if you had money, you were in. A title and a hefty mansion in one of the Home Counties helped but weren't strictly necessary. But if you were a woman...well, Arthur had seen one promising young girl be ejected from the 'top' society simply because she was wearing the wrong sort of gloves. It was brutal.

"No, you don't. If you did you'd be in the drawing room now telling everyone what a marvellous hostess I am."

He groaned inwardly. It all seemed to require so much effort! "Can't you ask Morgause?"

"She's busy with the baby! Besides people will just think she's being kind about her sister."

"They'll hardly believe me then. We lived in the same house for ten years. Practically twins."

She made her incredulous face. The face that said his stupidity had just risen to new levels. "Arthur, I rely on you!"

"I know, I know," He sighed, yet again. It seemed he had lost to Morgana. Yet again. "Give me ten minutes and I'll be downstairs. Happy?"

"Oh, yes. I'm over the moon with delight." But she smiled at him as she left the room and Arthur found himself humming merrily as he picked out a clean cravat.

* * *

The Honourable Guinevere Wales was not particularly happy. She had spent almost eight hundred pounds on new clothes: bonnets, gloves, shoes, muslin dresses, silk evening gowns, parasols and her favourite purchase: rose pink stockings. It was almost a shame that nobody except her maid would see them. She lifted the hem of her dress slightly, alone in her corner in the drawing room, just to see them. They nearly brought a smile to her face but she was not particularly happy. What was the point, she asked herself, in spending her father's money on a new wardrobe when the person she so hoped to impress had not even bothered to enter the room.

The door opened. Gwen held her breath. The slim figure of her hostess slipped into the room and her breath was expelled in one angry sigh. Of course.

"Miss Wales?" It was too cruel that a man's voice would call her name. The wrong man.

She turned around to face Sir Lancelot. He was undeniably good-looking, that much was true but he wasn't Arthur! He wasn't an Earl! He wasn't the heir to Pendragon Court or Camelot House or any of the other properties littered up and down the country and he wasn't particularly wealthy and most of all, the thing that truly mattered, was that he was not the heir to a Dukedom! Did that make her shallow? Oh, perhaps. But if she didn't get Arthur then he'd only end up with some other awful specimen of womanhood. He was sure to marry a simpering, money-grabbing harlot one day. It may as well be her.

"Miss Wales?"

"Yes?"

Sir Lancelot gave her a warm smile. "I was rather hoping to ask if I might escort you into dinner."

"Oh...I think you might have to ask Lady Morgana about that. I imagine she's already sorted it out."

"I did ask and she stared at me for a moment, and then she hurried out of the room, mumbling something under her breath," Sir Lancelot grinned. "I would take that as confirmation that Lady Morgana has forgotten to sort that particular detail out. Not that it matters very much of course."

"No I suppose not."

"So?"

He was persistent. She was hardly surprised. She may not have been the saintly, majestic Lady Morgana but she was hardly a peasant. And speaking of peasants, she would have to find some way of hiring a new maid. Her current one, Jane or Joan or something like that, was horribly inferior to the French lady's maid that Morgana had recently acquired. It was not fair at all, not at all...

She recalled herself sharply from the daydream. Sir Lancelot was gazing at her warmly.

"Very well, I suppose you may escort me into dinner," she said reluctantly and then she almost stopped breathing. Arthur had just entered the room. If she was a dog, her ears would have pricked up expectantly. Bestowing her most radiant smile on poor, perplexed Sir Lancelot, she fluttered her fan and glided away in the general direction of Arthur Pendragon and his skinny, gawky friend, goodness what was his name? It escaped her. Never mind, she thought, Guinevere Pendragon, Duchess of Camelot. Guinevere Pendragon, Duchess of Camelot. Guinevere Pendra -

"Miss Wales, how lovely to see you again." The silly little friend had interrupted her.

For goodness' sake. She had no time for silly pleasantries so she ignored the friend and concentrated on Arthur. "Lord Pendragon, I had no idea you would be here! I accepted Lady Morgana's invitation as a favour to a dear friend, you know. I couldn't possibly allow her to host her first party without me here."

Arthur grinned. "I believe I am under the same obligation, Miss Wales."

She glanced once at the floor and then back up to his face. "Yes, naturally. The bonds of family are quite strong, are they not?"

He frowned at her. Silently she berated herself.

"Family?" he questioned.

"Why yes," dear Lord what had she said wrong? "You and Lady Morgana are almost like brother and sister, are you not? My lord," she added hastily.

He flinched slightly, as though he was uncomfortable and did not answer. Gwen examined her gloves, desperately racking her brain for something clever and witty to say.

The door flew open, interrupting her thoughts. Morgana entered as her usual resplendent self. Gwen fought to conceal her annoyance. Just for once could she upstage Morgana instead of the other way around? She turned to make a comment to Arthur but the future Duke had already joined Morgana's side.

"Have you been singing my praises to everyone?" she hissed.

"I don't need to, they already adore you," Arthur replied. "Now when's dinner? I'm bloody starving."

She flicked his upper arm. "Don't swear in front of a lady. And it'll be five minutes."

"What is it?"

"Oh Arthur, I can't remember! Just go in there and eat it and look thrilled. Promise?" She yanked at her gloves, pulling them straight.

"Promise. As long as it's not squid again."

Morgana stopped her frantic glove pulling and shot him a quick grin. "No need to remind me."

Three years ago Arthur's father had hosted a great dinner party at Pendragon Court consisting of ten courses, twenty different wines and a sparkling champagne fountain in the middle of the table. Somewhere in between the roasted pork and onions and the raspberry tartelette with English cream, a squid had been served.

Arthur had never been particularly fond of seafood. The understatement of the century, Morgana would have said. Just the sight of his father's goldfish was enough to make him feel queasy. That squid however, had been the equivalent of being torn to pieces by starving wolves, chopped up by a mad axe man, burned at the stake before being thrown into shark infested waters. Arthur had tried in vain to catch Morgana's eye but she was busy with the wine. Even looking back caused him to feel a pang of irritation. The one time he had actually needed her!

He could have left it, the white rubbery mass on his plate, but his father was glaring at him and some of the guests were giving him funny looks. He calculated the odds of his father noticing that he wasn't eating and saving a punishment for later against gulping down the squid and managing to keep it down. None of it looked particularly good.

Just then Morgana had looked up from her glass of Sauvignon and raised her right eyebrow slightly. Only Arthur would have noticed. He pressed his lips together. She looked down at her plate and saw the squid, immediately understanding. With a cough, she rose to her feet. There was a pause and then all of the gentlemen rose too. Uther stared at her.

She began confidently, speaking clearly and without hesitation. But her fingers were trembling, only a little, against the folds of her gown. Only Arthur would have noticed and he felt something strange inside him. He remembered a shock – a sudden jolt in his stomach as he realised he was feeling gratitude, towards Morgana!

"Forgive this interruption," she said and to Uther she added, "Your Grace I hope you will not be angry. However it has come to my attention that this squid is not edible. That is to say, we cannot eat it." She stopped and glanced up at the head of the table.

Uther's face was like thunder. "Morgana, we will discuss this later," he growled. "My lords, ladies and gentlemen. Please continue with your meal. My ward is a little out of spirits this evening as you can see. Please, carry on."

Morgana had made a face at her failure. Arthur resigned himself to eating the squid and vomiting it back up in front of his father's guests. He picked up his fork and stabbed it into the monster. The monster wasn't there.

A white hand had spun the plate off the table and the squid and the fine white china had gone clattering to the floor. Arthur stared. A grim faced Morgana stood there.

"I won't let any of you eat it!" she called out, growing redder and redder. "You can't eat the squid! I demand it!"

Arthur had not seen Morgana for three weeks after that. She was locked away from him, from her sister and from society. Morgause had just been married by then and came often, begging Uther to let her take Morgana away but every time he refused.

"She is my responsibility Morgause," he said. "She is under my jurisdiction for the next three years. And until she is of age, she will remain so."

Arthur's reminiscence ended and he smiled faintly at Morgana. "As long as it's not squid," he said. "I'll eat it."

She reached out, as though she was going to touch him, but then stopped. Her hand dropped back to her side. "I knew I could rely on you," she said to him. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."

Arthur wanted to tell her that he would never let her down. But somehow, at that precise moment, the words wouldn't quite leave his mouth.

**Here is the first part of the next chapter. It was shaping up to be quite long so I thought I would split it into two. I hope you enjoy it! :)**


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